


The Red Rusty Door

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Series: Johnlock Trope Challenge [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alley Blow Jobs, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock, Challenge Response, Gritty, Guns, Johnlock Trope Challenge, Kissing, M/M, Minor Violence, One Shot, Semi-Public Sex, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:35:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1789033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is kidnapped and Sherlock must find him. Bad guys, guns, and (bonus trope!) an alley tryst ensue.</p><p>For Day 14 of the Johnlock Trope Challenge: I Will Find You</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Red Rusty Door

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note that this is a series of one-shots for a challenge and these stories will be wildly different in style and tone as I try out some new things. They aren't meant to connect to each other in any way. There's a 48-hour window to write and submit these, so results may vary!

Sherlock’s eyes were murderous, his mouth set in a grim line. The last person unlucky enough to see that expression spent three weeks in hospital recuperating from a concussion and a fractured femur.

He pressed his back up against the cold corrugated metal wall of the warehouse, staying in the shadows, pausing to listen. His hand glided to the pocket of his coat, his fingers curling around the gun. He heard voices, evaluated. This wasn’t the time. Not yet.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, stilled. His mind flashed back to the events that brought him to this moment.

He and John had been pursuing the head of a crime syndicate, a lowlife willing to peddle anything from drugs to blood diamonds. They had cornered him, but underestimated the number of his henchmen. Sherlock pictured the arm gripped around John’s throat, a gun at his head, pulling him backwards toward a black car as Sherlock slowly raised his hands, a gun trained on the back of his own head.

He had locked eyes with John, holding his gaze until the last moment, desperately communicating a singular thought: _I will find you._ John nodded, a movement imperceptible to anyone other than Sherlock, before he was roughly shoved into the backseat.

Sherlock waited half a heartbeat after the car door shut, then spun, slamming an elbow into the temple of the idiot behind him, jamming a knee into his stomach as he crumpled, scooping up the gun before dashing after the car that had screeched down the street.

That had been two days ago, 48 intense hours of tracking leads, shaking down easily frightened minions affiliated with the syndicate, and moving from bolt hole to bolt hole to stay out of sight. He didn’t tell Lestrade, didn’t seek Mycroft’s help. There was no need for an official entanglement of any sort at this point.

Sherlock brought his focus back to the present, listening again. He cautiously peered around the corner, saw two armed men -- sitting, smoking, playing cards, bored. Now.

He slipped further into the shadows, materialized behind the men, cocked the gun. “On the floor, if you please.”

The men froze as Sherlock stripped the weapons from their holsters, tossing the guns far out of reach as they slowly sank to their knees, hands behind their heads. Sherlock quickly snapped a pair of handcuffs on the first man, then the second, shackling them together. He unceremoniously dragged the first guard several feet closer to the wall -- possibly dislocating the man’s shoulder in the process, judging by the yelp he let out -- then snapped a second pair of cuffs on his other wrist and connected it to a sturdy pipe. He patted them down, removed their phones.

“Apologies,” he said coldly before pistol whipping them into unconsciousness. He slipped one phone into his pocket, smashed the other against the floor, grinding it under his heel for good measure. He was not in the mood to be fucked with.

He moved quickly down the corridor, stopping suddenly when he saw a movement ahead of him, a shadow sweeping briefly across the floor before disappearing. Another guard.

Sherlock sank back into an alcove, the Sig Sauer grasped in both hands, then swung out into the hallway, pointing the gun in full stance, shocked to find the barrel of a pistol already aimed at his own head. His mouth went dry but his hands remained steady.

The gunman opposite was remarkably steady as well, he noticed. Seconds that felt like hours swam by, until the silence was broken.

“Oh, Christ. Shit!” John lowered his gun, doubled over, his hands on his knees, exhaling hard. “I nearly took your head off.”

Sherlock finally blinked, his breath still held tightly in his chest, his hand now shaking slightly. “Are you alright?”

“Fine. I don’t think they’ve had time to bother with me. Something big is going on with a shipment. I was able to break away just now.”

Sherlock glanced down the hallway, could make out the form of a guard's prone body and blunt object -- a chair leg? -- lying on the floor. He raised an admiring eyebrow at John.

They slipped out of the warehouse and into the darkness, running at a full clip for several minutes before stopping to rest in the doorway of an abandoned building near the river, chests heaving, lungs aching, adrenaline running high in their systems. Sherlock pulled out the phone he’d taken from the one of the guards, checked to see if it was password protected. It wasn’t. He began typing.

“What are you doing?” John asked.

“Sending an anonymous tip to Scotland Yard. They should be here shortly,” he explained, pressing send. He finally let himself collapse against the door.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” he asked John.

“I’m fine. You took your time, though. You’re getting slow.”

Sherlock looked at him, almost cracking a smile. “You seemed to be doing just fine when I arrived.”

John shrugged, still catching his breath, then shook his head. “Seriously, though. Thank you.”

Sherlock held his gaze. “You know I’ll always be there. No matter what.” He couldn’t break his eyes away.

The adrenaline, the suppressed fear that now surfaced, the blood rushing in their veins combined into a volatile cocktail as they simultaneously drew closer, pausing, assessing, breaths still shallow, lips inches apart, then touching, melding. Sherlock moved his hand to John’s jaw, tilting his head back, pressing him against the red rusty door, wanting to feel every inch of his body meeting the resistance of his own.

Sherlock’s heart was still pounding from exertion, from John’s tongue twining in his mouth, his fingers gripping his hair. He pressed his hips harder against John, who responded by sliding his hands down to Sherlock’s arse, then up to his waist, to the fly of his trousers, their breathing rapid, his fingers working quickly at the button, pulling down the zip,  John kneeling…

This was dangerous. The police would be arriving any moment, sweeping the area, or another thug could be looking for them… The caution he meant to voice vaporized the moment John’s mouth surrounded him. Of course it was dangerous. They thrived on danger. He dimly recalled he still had a gun in his coat pocket, that his fingers had grazed against the hard metal of the Glock hastily tucked at the back of John’s waistband.

Oh, God… his head tipped back, his eyes closed. He’d never felt so alive.


End file.
